


Indestructible

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aliens, Altered Mental States, BAMF John Watson, Blood and Injury, Emotional bonding, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Possessive John, Virgin Sherlock, non-canon, romantic, science fiction AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We like to believe that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will always find their way to each other.<br/>In this alternate universe, Sherlock, the brilliant techie, is there when an alien falls to Earth near 221Baker Base. When they finally meet, will the alien prove to be the only thing that is indestructable?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story to be posted here. It is based on the beautiful Space AU illustrations of Johnlocking-Always as seen below. I fell in love with the works and decided to create a story based on them. As is usually the case, the story wrote itself along lines I had not initially envisioned, but I hope the readers--and Johnlocking-Always--will enjoy it.

 “Lock down that area right now, Commander Lestrade. We are sending in reinforcements, in case you need them.”

Lestrade nodded, even though the voice over his headset couldn’t see it. “Right, General Holmes. I’ll send you back word as soon as we have all units in position.”

He made a broad gesture to his troops to move forward cautiously. The air was full of dust kicked up from the impact crater so it was going to be hard to see what could have possibly hit the ground hard enough to cause a major vibration 10 miles away at the base.

221Baker had been on full alert anyway due to the detection of a large unidentified cruiser just outside Earth’s atmosphere. It had refused any communication and had simply cruised by without even acknowledging the “Bees”—automated surveillance crafts that were sent to perform unobtrusive reconnaissance around the massive vehicle. The only thing the Bees had reported back was that something had either been ejected or escaped from a port in the side of the ship. They had tracked it to ground and reported its impact somewhere north of London, England, and not far from 221Baker military base.

Helicopters were already hovering over the gaping hole in the ground caused by a massive impact of something falling uncontrolled through the atmosphere. Searchlights probed the surrounding ground as they searched for anything out of the ordinary--any movement or reflection which could pinpoint an object of interest. Occasionally one would pass over a clear plastic globe trundling over the ground toward the pit, illuminating the man inside. He was obviously tall, even in a seated position, and acutely lean in his tailored uniform. Numerous screens and telltales seemed to float around his face and shoulders, readouts which showed him everything from mean atmospheric temperature to any ambient radiation in the area.

Sharp blue-green eyes scanned all telemetry fed to his devices by the computers located below and behind his seat. The globe traveled over all terrain without any difficulty, exactly as it had been designed to do. The inner compartment was kept gyroscopically stable within the outer sphere, its movement controlled by two handles, one on either side of the seat. The driver showed exceptional skill in controlling the rolling beast as he approached the site of the crash.

“Captain Lestrade, this is MasterTech Sherlock Holmes reporting in. Can I be of any assistance?”

Lestrade cursed under his breath. “ _Negative_ , MasterTech. We have everything under control. You’re presence will only confuse things here and put yourself in unnecessary danger, do you copy?”

Sherlock smirked at the obvious exasperation in Lestrade’s voice. He knew that his presence always caused a bit of a stir in any circumstance. “I can assure you, Captain, I will not get in your way. We need scientific data on this…whatever-it-is, and sooner rather than later. I’m coming up behind you, so don’t let Sergeant Donovan shoot me, copy? You _know_ she’d love to do it, over.”

He heard a guffaw over the headset as Lestrade acknowledged what they both knew to be true. Donovan often called Sherlock names because of his exceptional intelligence and scientific skills, which made her and some of her fellows feel like low-grade imbeciles. Frankly, she hated his guts, but he was such an asset to the military that she would have been risking her career by antagonizing him. An accidental shot due to mistaken identity, however…

“Lestrade!” Lestrade turned just in time to see Sherlock come rolling up in his newly-completed mobile telemetry station. He watched as Sherlock flipped a few switches which caused the bubble to settle, a door and ramp opening in the clear outer shell to allow Sherlock to alight. As he walked toward him, Lestrade cast an admiring look over the bubble.

 

“Fancy, Sherlock,” Lestrade nodded, impressed. “You sure got that done in record time. Once this is over you _must_ show me what’s inside!” Sherlock smiled and nodded, proud of his new toy. He craned his head over Lestrade’s shoulder to look at the raised rim of the impact crater. “Have the heli’s been able to get any readings yet? Visual, IR, UV, background radiation?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Nope. We haven’t deployed any equipment yet, on instructions from General Holmes. Wanted us to wait for you to arrive with the bubble. Are you planning on rolling that thing up over the rim? We’re going to be moving a few men up to the rim first to see if we can get a peek inside. It looks like it may rain shortly, so that might clear the dust out of the air a bit.”

Sherlock nodded, smiling, his glittering eyes never leaving the rim. “I’d love to see what’s inside…” he said, breathlessly.

Lestrade snorted in disbelief. “Oh, no. Not before _my_ people do. Your brother would have my guts for garlands if anything happened to you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and looked away. “I know, I know. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be kept on such a short leash. He already thinks I need to be babysat at every opportunity. Blow up one lab and everybody thinks you’re a menace to society.”

“Well…”

“Captain!” A slim female figure in battle fatigues ran up to them and saluted Lestrade. It was Sergeant Sally Donovan, who gave Sherlock a covert stink-eye before continuing. “Sir, some movement has been reported inside the crater by observers. Nothing large, you know, not like tanks or Martian tripods or anything like that, but definite movement.” She looked at Sherlock with disapproval. “You need to get the hell out of here, MasterFre--Tech Holmes. This is no place for unarmed and untrained personnel.”

Sherlock’s smile dripped acid. “Thank you for your concern, Sergeant Donovan, but, if I ever need your opinion, I’ll ask a house plant. Captain,” he turned his back squarely on Donovan, who was seething with barely-controlled anger, “I’d like to accompany your troops up to the rim.” He held up a hand to forestall any objections. “I promise I will stay behind your men and not expose myself to any unnecessary danger. I simply _must_ get some data!”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right, Sherlock. Just hang back until you get the all clear from me, OK?” Sherlock nodded assent. “Good. Now get back into your bubble thingy and prepare to move forward on my command.”

Sherlock bobbed his head in agreement and sprinted toward the globe, slipping inside and closing it up in one fluid movement. Lestrade gestured to his men to move forward, guns at the ready. The globe rolled forward at a deliberately-slow pace, avoiding soldiers with agility, until it was within 30 feet of the rim. Sherlock busied himself with starting the data-collection devices on-board as he sat, waiting to see what would crest the ridge.

He didn’t have to wait long. Through the glow of burning trees set afire by the friction from atmospheric re-entry, and accompanied by the probing searchlights of the heli’s, a smallish object rose unevenly out of the pit. It was difficult to make out in the thick air but it looked almost…

“What _is_ that?” he murmured, fascinated. ”Looks like…no way! I-it can’t be…” He rolled his vehicle forward slowly, and parked the ball. The door opened and he stealthily climbed out, making sure that his movements would not spook the already-tense soldiers around him.

The object was short, bipedal, and definitely _not_ mechanical, judging by the way it moved. It looked… _human_ \--but that just wasn’t _possible_. From what little Sherlock could see from his position, the figure wasn’t wearing any sort of protective gear or exoskeleton. Indeed, it seemed to be wearing only the barest essentials. It stood there, eyes glaring down at the soldiers amassed around it, unmoving but emanating an aura of menace nonetheless.

Sherlock watched, agape. “So it wasn’t a meteor after all! It was…him! _”_ he said to himself, struck by the strongest sense of _recognition_ , as if he had known this man before, impossible as that was. None of _his_ acquaintances could survive a plunge to earth wearing little more than their skivvies…

Lestrade started to move up the ridge cautiously, followed by Donovan and Sgt. Dimmock. He stopped about 10 feet away from the object and lowered his rifle, knowing that the others were covering him from behind. He removed his helmet and gun and laid them at his feet, to appear less threatening to the intruder. “Hello, there,” Lestrade said, displaying empty hands. “I’m Captain Greg Lestrade. Welcome to Earth! Can you speak? Can you communicate with us?”

Donovan looked nervous. Not that she didn’t trust Lestrade with her life—far from it--but this intruder seemed to be especially intimidating. He stood there, unarmed and almost naked, yet his demeanor was such that she didn’t doubt he could take out every single one of their soldiers without breaking a sweat. She jumped as Sherlock crept up close behind her. “Get out of here, freak! It’s not safe…” she snarled.

“I’m well aware of that, Donovan,” Sherlock hissed back, “But I have faith you will not let anything happen to me, at least if you want to keep your job, and first-person intelligence-gathering is always superior to relying upon machines, don’t you agree?” There was a strange buzzing that reverberated through his brain, accompanied by a sense of unreality.

Donovan made a disgusted sound and turned her attention back to Lestrade.

“Do you have a ship with you?” Lestrade said as he slowly edged toward the lone figure. “A space suit or life pod?”

Up on the ridge, the stranger hadn’t moved, although he did cock his head to one side, as though evaluating Lestrade for any potential danger he might present. He remained rooted in place but his dark eyes watched every movement Lestrade made from beneath silvered brows. His eyes flicked up for a moment to where Donovan and Dimmock stood—with Sherlock behind them--and widened with both relief and disbelief. Lestrade took advantage of this moment of distraction to reach out a hand…

Sherlock had never seen anyone move so quickly and decisively. The stranger caught Lestrade’s wrist and threw him aside like a dog toy, sending him bouncing and rolling down the ridge almost to Donovan’s feet. She looked down in horror as Dimmock raised his rifle and fired two shots, one of them hitting the stranger. It impacted squarely in the left shoulder, knocking him back a step or two, but the stranger ran down the embankment at Dimmock, bellowing in rage. There was blood gushing from the wound, soaking his shirt, yet he didn’t even seem to notice it. His hands, claw-like, reached for Dimmock…

 _Oh, shit, oh, shit, this is no place for me!_ Sherlock thought as he scrambled away toward the bubble. _I’m a tech, not a soldier. He’ll spread me all over the landscape!_ He wished he’d parked the bubble closer. The sounds of fighting behind him filled his ears with screams and gunshots as he saw other soldiers running past him toward the area of encounter. _Crap! What’s going on back there? Should I go back?_ He shook his head as he ran, answering his own question. _Oh, hell, no! What the hell could I do? Talk him to death?_

He was rapidly approaching the bubble, long legs pumping as they ate up the distance. His lungs were burning from the smoke lying thick in the air. He fished out his remote, desperately trying to key in the code to open the bubble door and extend the ramp so he could get inside, away from the sounds of breaking bodies and growls of anger behind him.

Before he could reach the bubble, there was a jerk on his arm that whirled him around. He found himself face-to-bloody-face with the intruder, the stranger, the man who could survive a fall from space. He stared into slate-blue eyes, intense in their color and gaze. When he tried to pull away, the grip on his partially-bare wrist was iron, despite the bloody wound in his shoulder. The grasp felt electric.

Sherlock had never been one to give in to fear before, but, now, his eyes widened and his breath came in frightened gasps as he waited for God-only-knew-what. His eyes momentarily flicked over to where Lestrade and his troops had stood moments before. They and their supposed rescuers were lying scattered around the burning ground, their bodies badly injured, their guns bent and thrown beyond their reach.

Lestrade looked over and saw what was happening. “Sherlock!” he yelled, “Get the hell out of here!” He dragged himself to his feet and started limping toward the bubble.

“I’m trying!” Sherlock yelled back, pulling at his arm to free it. The stranger easily held him in place and observed him with narrowed eyes. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s thick hair, leaned in, and sniffed at his neck with what seemed to be an approving grunt. “Tsher-lok,” he repeated, a heavy glottal stop on the “k”. His face softened.

Sherlock stopped struggling, still fearful of his captor but slowly becoming curious. “Yes. Sherlock,” he responded, pointing to himself, his voice wobbly. The stranger’s brows knitted together in thought. Then, he nodded, his face brightened, and he pointed at Sherlock’s chest. “Tsher-lok,” he repeated, this time without the stop.

“Yes!” Sherlock said eagerly, just before yelling, “NO!” as a soldier, who had stealthily come up from behind, clubbed the stranger over the head with the butt of his gun. The stranger stiffened and fell over, pulling Sherlock down with him. It took two soldiers to remove the stranger’s grip from Sherlock’s wrist.

“Holy shit, Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed as his men picked up the stranger and loaded him into an ambulance. “I thought you were a dead man when he ran after you. Why did he do that? Did he hurt you? Did he say anything to you?”

Sherlock shook his head to clear out the shock. “He…said my name, picked it out when you called to me. And he… _sniffed_ me.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Explain _that_ one to me!”

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a little comforting shake. “Well, thank God you’re OK. I would have been skinned alive if anything had happened to you.” He turned and walked back to where Donovan, Dimmock, and the others were being treated for broken bones, cuts, bruises, and concussions.

Entering the bubble, Sherlock shut off the recording equipment and turned the vehicle around, heading back to base. Something bothered him, was _off_ somehow. He shivered. How could he have thought he recognized someone, an _alien_ …and, equally as important, how could that person have seemed to recognize _him_? Known his name from what, to him, would have sounded like a flood of gibberish.

It was a mystery. And everyone at base knew how much Sherlock loved a good mystery…


	2. Truth Quietly Spoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alien has been detained, but answers are yet to be forthcoming. How does Sherlock fit into this mystery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Space AU by Johnlocking-always.tumblr

The stranger was confined to an observation cell, glowering at the scientists staring at him through the observation window. His left shoulder had been treated and bandaged while he was unconscious but he seemed to take no notice of any pain or limitation of movement. In fact, a few hours after he was treated, he had ripped the dressings off, revealing a freshly-healed scar. Other than that, he showed no injuries of any kind from his rapid descent through the atmosphere. 

The junior techs had been crawling all over the crash site. To their amazement, no vehicle, suit, or protective devices had been found in, or near, the crater. Either everything had been vaporized except for the stranger, or he had been unprotected by anything but his meager clothing. Scientists were busy analyzing what was left of the garb which had survived the fall with him, having dressed him in regular scrubs during his examination and treatment.

Upon awakening, the stranger had sat alone in his cell, strangely indifferent to his surroundings. Any food brought in was ignored and any attempts at communication were gruffly rebuffed. The look on his face spoke volumes, however. No one wanted to be the first to enter the cell and beard this particular dragon in his den. Lestrade and his soldiers had all paid a price for underestimating him.

General Holmes strode into the observation bay without announcement, causing all military personnel to jump hurriedly to their feet and salute. “At ease,” he said, his eyes focused on the stranger sitting cross-legged on his bunk. His gaze was not returned as the stranger seemed to be either meditating or sleeping upright. “So, have we found out anything? Has he spoken?”

“No, General,” Dr. Molly Hooper replied softly. “Not a word. From what I was told, the only time he spoke was after he beat up a group of soldiers and went after MasterTech Holmes, sir.” She looked at the stranger nervously through the heavy plexiglass plate. She had heard tell of his behavior during the first contact scenario and didn’t fancy being even this close to him.

The General raised an eyebrow. “He spoke to my brother? How odd,” he mused. “Sherlock didn’t mention it in his report. But, then, knowing Sherlock…” He turned to his aide-de-camp, Anthea, she of the ever-present iPhone. “Please have MT Sherlock Holmes come down here for debriefing. I need to speak with him immediately about this,” he bobbed his head toward the stranger, “…situation.” She nodded curtly and called down to Sherlock’s lab.

“Tell my brother I’m busy downloading the data from the bubble,” Sherlock’s tinny voice snapped over the phone’s intercom. “I really don’t have time for this.”

General Holmes leaned over her shoulder and commanded, “Sherlock, get your ass up here NOW,” thereby taking a personal hand in rounding up his recalcitrant brother. 

Sherlock grumbled something indecipherable into the phone, then could be heard ordering Anderson to start sifting through the data from the bubble before terminating the call. He knew that, if he didn’t do what his brother told him to do, his funding would be cut off. Sherrinford was just enough of a dick to do it, just to keep him in line.

Sherlock had always been different. Neither of his older brothers could understand why he so curious, so feckless and defiant in his approach to life. He had always felt like the proverbial square peg in the round hole of his family, unlike Sherrinford and Mycroft, who had both carved out decidedly more mundane careers than Sherlock could ever be suited for. As the only scientist in the family, his opinion was seldom solicited by either brother, so Sherlock knew this was an unusual request and he fairly certain he wasn’t going to enjoy anything even remotely associated with it.

He had a sick feeling he knew why he was being summoned. He dragged his feet all the way to the observation cell, making every side journey he could possibly manage to delay the inevitable. As he entered the observation bay, General Sherrinford Holmes cocked a knowing eyebrow and nodded in greeting. “Sherlock. About fucking time, dear brother. Did you…?”

Before he could complete his snark-ridden observation, the stranger’s head shot up and his eyes shot to and fixated on the observation bay window. “Tsherlok,” he said, rising from his bunk and advancing toward the plexiglass behind which Sherlock stood. Quiet at first, he laid his hands against the window and peered in at him quizzically. His eyes, and then his fingers, traveled around the window setting, looking for a weak spot or seam. His movements became more and more desperate until he finally made a fist and slammed it viciously against the glass. “Tsherlok!” he yelled, eyes wild, pupils dilated. “Tsherlok!” He beat the plexiglass with his fists until they began to bleed, then backed up and ran at the window, striking it with his wounded shoulder. He showed no awareness of pain, but his face was hard and determined.

General Holmes’s face blanched as he took a step back, turning to assess the effect of this outburst on his youngest brother. Sherlock had shrunk back against the back wall, his classic features drained of blood. “He didn’t react like that the last time,” he said, his voice oddly tremulous. “He was calm. He didn’t try to hurt me, just grabbed my wrist. See?” He held up his left wrist, indicating a reddened grip mark just below his cuff. “They had to pry his hand off me.” He nervously massaged his wrist. “His touch…it was like a current going through me, and…” 

“Come with me, Sherlock,” General Holmes said, gently leading Sherlock from the room by the elbow. “We need to talk, in private, before you say anything else.” Sherlock nodded, biting his lower lip in consternation. He allowed his eldest brother to guide him out of the observation bay, casting one last worried look at the seeming madman still pounding on the plexiglass, screaming his name.

The “Officer’s Lounge”, or “Brass Balls Lounge” as it was jokingly called around 221Baker, was a well-appointed, very comfortable room with burgundy walls and green leather furniture. Sherlock had never been in it before and was suitably impressed. His eldest brother believed that they should move within their own circles while on base, so they seldom fraternized. The same went for Mycroft, who occupied what he referred to as a “modest” position amongst the ranks of the diplomatic corps. Sherlock seldom saw or interacted with either one except during the awkward holidays at home. It was, therefore, more than passing strange for Sherlock to be occupying the same couch in the same room on base with “the General” for any reason.

Sherrinford stood at the bar and poured a scotch on the rocks for each of them before handing one to Sherlock, despite the fact he knew Sherlock normally didn’t indulge. “Drink it, Sherlock,” he said as he sat down at the other end of the green leather couch. “You’ve had enough surprises for today.” When Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste, Sherrinford joked, “Consider it a form of light anesthesia,” and downed his own expertly. Sherlock nodded and drank a few sips, shuddering as it hit his stomach. 

“What the hell is going on around here, Sherri?” he asked, falling back on a comfortable childhood nickname for his formidable older brother. “I mean, for God’s sake, a man fell from the sky and lived! He was shot in the shoulder—I saw it happen—“ he ran his fingers through his dense, curly hair in distress, “and he kept going, kept fighting like it was nothing! He came after me and I felt like I knew him! And what about this…” He held up his wrist again to show the red mark. “this should have gone away hours ago! It’s almost like an electrical burn!” He looked at his brother and his eyes were pleading. “Please, Sherri, please…tell me what’s going on!”

“I don’t know, Sherl,” Sherrinford admitted with a heavy sigh, his expression softening into something less formal, less distant, than the one he normally wore during the day. He rested his head on his fingertips wearily. “I can tell you what I know and that’s damned little. Whoever--or whatever--this thing is, it fell or was pushed out of a passing spacecraft of unfamiliar design that didn’t bother with any attempts to communicate. Mycroft is busy doing damage control, trying to keep the world powers in the dark, which means he’s probably lying his ass off. If any of them got wind of our visitor, everyone would want a piece of him. And then there’s your part in all this.” He dropped his eyes, unwilling or unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze. 

“My part?” Sherlock asked, jiggling the ice nervously in his glass. “So there’s more to this than you’ve been letting on, isn’t there?” Without thinking, he drained his glass and nearly choked on the acrid contents before setting it down.

Sherrinford looked away uncomfortably, setting his own empty tumbler down on a teak side table. He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Sherl, there is.” He looked up and locked eyes with his youngest brother. “Do you remember, when you were a child, we told you about the Atraxi visitation? How you loved to hear Mum tell you that story over and over again before bedtime?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agreed, frowning in confusion. “I used to pretend…”

Sherrinford held up a hand to stop him. “Let me finish. As you know, a small Atraxi vessel crashed not far from here back when you were a baby. The military got a hold of it and did a lot of reverse engineering on its tech, which is why we have the Bees and a lot of other bleeding-edge military and civilian inventions. We also learned the rudiments of their language. What no one mentioned was that the vessel was manned. Press never got hold of that. There were three humanoid life forms on board--two adults and one young child. The adults died on impact but the baby survived and was brought to 221B for observation...”

Sherlock rocked back in his seat, surprised, as Sherrinford continued. “We didn’t know the child’s name, but the soldiers who found him had nicknamed him John Watson, after a friend they had lost recently. He couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6, Earth years of age. General Haversham, who ran the base at that time, decided that the little tyke needed someone to act as family, so, since Mum and Dad were already working in the lab and had the proper clearances, they sort of “adopted” little John, staying here on base with him. They even let Mycroft and me play with him sometimes. But that isn’t the strangest part of it, not by half.”

Sherrinford got up and refilled his glass, and Sherlock’s, and Sherlock drained his without blinking an eye this time. “I take it you have some more surprises in store for me?” Sherlock asked, with some mild trepidation.

“Yes, I’m afraid I do, Sherl,” Sherrinford agreed, his lips tightly pursed. A drag on his drink and he continued. “One day, Mum couldn’t get a baby-sitter for you, so she had to bring you along to the lab. She was always fussing over you because you were so small and sickly when you were born, so she kept you home most of the time. This time, however, Dad got the brilliant idea of introducing you to Johnnie, as we called him, just as he had done with us. I mean, what could it hurt, right?”

Another sip, then he put the glass down. “You crawled right up to him, no fear in you whatsoever. You and little Johnny reached out to each other and, suddenly, there was this huge spark and the two of you flew backwards. Johnnie just sat there, looking kind of numb, but you started wailing something terrible and Mum ran over and rushed you out of the room, glaring at Dad. She never let him live that down. I mean, neither one of you was injured, but it scared Mum so badly that she never let you near the lab again.”

“Later, when the Atraxi rescue ship arrived to claim the parent’s bodies and their child, we told them what had happened. They were…intrigued. They told us that Atraxi sometimes could form pair bonds with other races, resulting in…well, they weren’t very clear on that. There was this concept they had, that the pair bonded couple would be somehow…superlative. That’s the only thing I could understand of it. Language barrier, you know. The Atraxi had terms for things that didn’t translate into our language.”

Sherlock’s nose rumpled, as it often did when he was perplexed. “So, how does that affect me? I mean, I didn’t grow tentacles or anything…”

“No, but you’re still an aberration. Mum and Dad were, at best, low-level research assistants, nothing like you. You’re a proper genius, Sherl. Your tests are all off the charts. Of course, Mycroft thinks he’s brilliant, but you really are. Look at that portable sensor array you built. Nobody else had a clue how to do that, but you did. You called it ‘child’s play’”

“So…is this the same…?” Sherlock cast his eyes down in thought, caught up in the sudden deluge of information. He stared at his reddened wrist and rubbed it self-consciously.

“It’s the same alien, Sherl. John Watson—that’s the only name we’ve ever had for him in our records. We managed to get some DNA and blood work on him before he woke up and started acting out again and had to be placed in the observation cell. He has answers to our questions but he’s not willing to give them to us.” Sherrinford downed the rest of his drink in one, and then pursed his lips. “Unless, if you’d be willing…”

Sherlock jumped up, almost falling backward over the arm of the sofa. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “No, you can’t possibly be asking me to…to…” He stared in disbelief at the older brother he had idolized all his life. He stretched out an arm in emphasis. “You saw how he reacted when I entered the pod! He attacked the damned window like a madman! What would happen if he got me within arms’ reach again? That would answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?”

Sherrinford looked shocked. “What, do you think I’d allow anything to happen to you?” He rose and placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His voice mellowed, became warmer with affection. “You’re my baby brother. I’ve always looked out for you, Sherl. We’ll do this with all due caution, agreed?” When Sherlock hesitated, he added, “Don’t you want your own answers to this mystery?”

After a few moments of consideration, Sherlock relented. “Yes, I do. I need to know. So, how are we going to do this?”


	3. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one knows why the stranger named John Watson came to Earth this time. It will be up to Sherlock to get the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Space AU artwork by Johnlocking-always

The stranger sat, unmoving, on his bunk, only the rise and fall of his chest attested to his continued status as a living being. 

Sherlock suppressed a shudder as he looked at him. The outburst of the day before was still fresh in his mind. He nervously ran a hand through his thick, dark locks, getting his fingers caught in the tight curls at the back of his head. I really don’t want to do this…

“Over here, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Hooper pointed to a medical port that had been cut into the clear, hard plastic wall of the holding cell. It had a porthole-style door set into it with a membrane stretched across the opening. “You can place your hand on the membrane here and he can touch you safely.” She smiled nervously up at him and then turned away, as if she feared he might read something negative on her face. He watched her walk away without turning his head. She had been observing the stranger and probably had a better idea of what to expect than he did.

Once Sherlock had positioned himself in front of the port, she rapped on the window to get the stranger’s attention. He ignored her. She tried again. Same result. She looked at Sherlock, unsure how to proceed. “Say my name,” he suggested, steeling himself for the unknown, yet somehow expected, reaction.

Dr. Hooper mouthed, “OK”, then loudly said, “Well, hello, Sherlock!” 

The stranger’s head immediately shot up and he sprang to his feet, moving swiftly and fluently toward the port like a tiger. He stood in front of Sherlock, staring up the four inches in height between their eyes, his gaze open and curious. “Tsherlok,” he said, raising his eyebrows in greeting. A fleeting smile touched his lips. His eyes flicked down once to Sherlock’s lips, and then back up again.

Sherlock stared openly at the man. “John Watson,” he responded in his pleasant baritone, and was rewarded with a pleased grin. He was attractive, John was, with close-cropped silver-blond hair, a broad face, and a wide, expressive mouth with thin lips. He stared back at Sherlock with dark blue-gray eyes and licked his lips. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a nervous habit or if it meant something more, but he found himself looking at those lips intently. He rested a flat palm against the glass next to the port as an experiment and John mimicked his action, lining up his smaller fingers to Sherlock’s. He looked more curious than ever, his head canted to one side, his gaze both questioning and admiring.

A polite cough from behind reminded Sherlock that he was not alone in the room and that others were waiting to see what would happen next. After throwing Sherrinford an apprehensive look and receiving a supportive smile and nod in return, he swung the portal open and, gingerly, laid his right hand flat against the membrane, not wishing to expose his reddened left wrist to the stranger’s grasp once again. The stranger watched, eyes sharply observant, and then laid his left hand flat against Sherlock’s, fingers aligned as before. He looked up again but this time his face was expressionless.

“Do you…feel anything, Mr. Holmes?” Dr. Hooper asked. 

Sherlock shook his head, then looked over his shoulder at Dr. Hooper. “No. Not through this membrane. Which is a good thing, I suppose…”

He had barely finished his thought when the stranger shifted his stance and grabbed the membrane with his other hand, pulling it loose from its moorings. He interlaced his short fingers with Sherlock’s long ones, clutching his hand as their palms touched. 

Sherlock reacted as if he had touched a live wire. He stiffened, his whole body trembling as his eyes rolled back in his head. His fingers spasmed around John’s hand in a death grip. Dr. Hooper ran forward to help but was held back by others, fearful of the fate she might suffer if she touched him.

John’s reaction was equally powerful but he was able to grit his teeth and remain standing, leaning his weight with his free arm against the Plexiglas wall. He had pulled Sherlock’s arm almost completely through the port, which was the only reason Sherlock was still upright. Sherrinford yelled for security to enter the cell and pry the two of them apart. The submarine-style door between the observation cell and pod opened, allowing two security guards access. They rushed in and started striking John with their batons, obviously afraid to touch him directly. John’s vise-like grip on Sherlock’s hand was broken by a sharp strike to the wrist, allowing Sherlock to slide to the floor, boneless and unconscious. John made a desperate grab at the arm as it snaked back through the port but failed to retrieve it.

John turned on the guards, yelling something that was, very likely, a profanity, and bared his teeth. He grabbed one guard by the forearm and, with a single twist, dislocated his shoulder while swinging him into the other. Still holding the arm, he swung an elbow into the first guard’s jaw with an audible crack, causing him to drop like a stone. When the second guard fell at his feet, John stamped a heel into the guard’s solar plexus and followed up with a skillful kick to the head. Having incapacitated both guards, John sprinted through the still-open and toward Sherlock, who still lay limp and unresponsive, on the floor. 

Being closest to Sherlock, Sherrinford placed himself squarely between the two, determined to protect his brother from this madman. John grinned disconcertingly and simply grabbed him by the collar, throwing him into an adjacent wall with no apparent effort. One guard pulled out a taser and fired it into John. John jolted once, then reached down and pulled the taser wires out of his shirt and threw them down, smirking to himself. Another guard pulled his gun and, despite Dr. Hooper’s plea not to hurt him, shot John in the right side of the chest, near his heart. He staggered and looked down, puzzled, as blood pulsed from the wound, covering the front of his scrubs and dripping to the floor. He touched the wound and his fingers came away coated in blood. Steely slate blue eyes glared from under his brows. He snarled something no one could understand and grabbed Sherlock, hugging him to his bloody chest as he dragged the unconscious body backward into the cell. Once there, he hunkered down beside his bunk, bleeding profusely but never relinquishing his grip on his prize--the pale, slender form of Sherlock Holmes.

“General!” a voice cracked through the tension in both rooms. The tall, meticulously-dressed figure of Mycroft Holmes, head of the Diplomatic Corps stepped into the observation pod. He peered through the glass and, for a brief moment, his well-known composure slipped. The dismay on the face of the so-called “Ice Man” took everyone off-guard. “Good God, Sherrinford, what the hell happened in here, and why is our brother being held prisoner by that alien?” 

Sherrinford peeled himself off the wall where he had landed, leaving a minor blood smear where the back of his head had impacted. He rubbed his head as he looked around for Sherlock, only then noticing his brother’s current location and predicament. “Oh, shit. How the hell did that happen? We took precautions…” Mycroft snorted and Sherrinford glared at him. “Well, Mycroft, maybe you could have done better if you’d been here, but somehow I doubt it. You didn’t see what I saw.” He instructed the remaining guards to drag the injured out of the cell and as far away from a growling John Watson as possible. Dr. Hooper oversaw the removal of the wounded to sickbay. She glanced anxiously at Sherlock as she left. “Please let me know if anything changes or if you…need me for anything.” Sherrinford nodded, understanding the meaning behind her words.

Once the brothers were alone, Mycroft frowned and tapped the ferrule of his ever-present umbrella on the floor in impatience. “So now what, brother mine? Do we leave poor Sherlock in there until Johnnie boy,” he practically sneered the name, “decides to kill him? That would be quite the predicament, wouldn’t it? How would you explain that to Mummy and Dad?”

“Oh, do shut up, Mycroft. I have no intention of allowing Sherlock to come to any harm. He is far too great an asset, besides being my favorite sibling,” he smiled, aiming at the not-too-subtle-jab at Mycroft, who bristled, “to pointlessly allow him to be sacrificed in such a manner. I was actually rather hoping that bastard John would bleed to death before long, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I wonder why.” He gazed thoughtfully at John, propped against the wall, breathing hard, his blood pooling on the floor around his bum. He was still holding Sherlock, although now he had him draped across his lap and was weakly stroking his hair. 

“He seems weak right now. Couldn’t we go in there and…?” Mycroft suggested.

Sherrinford snorted derisively. “The generic answer is no. Don’t be deceived, Mike. That man took a gunshot to the chest and still kept going, despite a blood loss that would have killed a human. At the very least, he could rip out someone’s jugular vein with his teeth. I’d rather not see that happen, even to you,” he sniped.

“I do have some knowledge of Atraxi language, you know,” Mycroft mused to himself, ignoring Sherrinford’s digs, as usual. “Learned it on the off chance it might be useful. Perhaps I can communicate with John. I might be able to find out what he wants with Sherlock--indeed, why he is here at all.”

“You might want to leave the damned umbrella in here. God knows, he might think it’s a weapon,” Sherrinford noted sarcastically.

Mycroft smiled mirthlessly. “An excellent idea, Sherri.” He said, deliberately using his brother’s childhood nickname in public just to needle him. “I will go in there now and see what I can accomplish.” He parked his umbrella against a console and walked with a measured pace into the cell.

He stepped distastefully around the drag trail of bright red blood leading from the pod, through the door, and into the back of the cell, where he found John Watson in his bolt-hole by the bunk. He sat there, soaked in blood and holding Sherlock in front of his body--right hand holding his throat and left arm encircling his chest. Sherlock’s head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, his lower body positioned between John’s legs, which were wrapped around his knees possessively. John’s eyes burned with hostility and suspicion when he saw Mycroft approaching. He turned his head and dragged his tongue along the side of Sherlock’s neck, never once turning his eyes away from Mycroft. 

Looking around at the amount of blood that had pumped out of John’s chest, Mycroft was astounded. John should have been, at the very least, incapacitated and, at the very worst, dead. Yet, here he was, baring his teeth and snarling at Mycroft as he approached. When Mycroft finally stopped and knelt about 6 feet away, John lightly bit Sherlock on the neck and wrinkled his nose aggressively. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound, a fact which worried Mycroft greatly. As opposed to a bleeding human, John seemed to be gaining in strength and alertness by the minute. Once he was completely revived, Sherlock’s fate became even more uncertain.

He asked a question in the Atraxi tongue. He knew enough of the language to keep the sentences short and to the point. Atraxi was a complex language and errors were all too easy to make. 

“Tsherlok,” John stated simply, tightening his grip around his captive. He nuzzled the pale neck, burying his nose in the dark curly hair, breathing him in. 

Mycroft swallowed his repulsion at the way his brother was being…pawed by this creature. He slid forward a little on his knees to see how far John would allow him to approach, only to have John growl and fasten his mouth to that slender throat and suck, leaving a livid bruise. 

“Mycroft! Back off!” Sherrinford yelled from the pod door. “The longer you’re in there, the closer you get, the more aggressive he’s becoming! He might harm Sherlock if he feels provoked!”

“I disagree, brother dear,” Mycroft replied, turning his head slightly so Sherrinford could hear him but never taking his eyes off John, whom he was observing keenly. “Watch him—his response is more territorial than aggressive right now. He’s not attacking me, he’s laying claim to Sherlock for some reason.” 

Returning his attention to John fully, he asked him a different question in Atraxi. John’s eyes narrowed but he gave no response. Mycroft repeated the question, but more forcefully, banging his fist on the ground in a show of dominance.

John’s eyes blazed this time. He hugged Sherlock’s limp body against himself and spat out a single word, as though that should answer all questions.

From where he stood, Sherrinford could see how John was becoming more agitated as Mycroft continued to push him for answers. After this last response, John had closed his teeth around the side of Sherlock’s throat, enough to leave marks. Sherlock lay helpless in his grasp. John’s dark eyes spoke volumes. 

“Damn it, Mycroft, get back here!” Sherrinford hissed at his brother. “He’s giving you all the warning signs you need. He could tear Sherlock’s throat out in an instant! Now, get out of there before he gets worse!”

Mycroft slid backwards, then slowly got to his feet and backed out of the cell. John’s eyes followed him, wary of any and all movement until Mycroft reached the door. Then he snarled one last Atraxi word.

“What did you ask him? What did he say?” Sherrinford asked as he helped Mycroft through the doorway. Mycroft was actually shaking and Sherrinford knew why. He remembered what it felt like to be face to face with such unbridled aggression and being flung against the wall like a baby seal. 

Mycroft sat down and took a deep breath, regaining his icy composure. “At first, I asked him why he had come here. He said…,” 

“Sherlock. I heard,” Sherrinford interrupted. “Then, what?”

“When I asked him why he took Sherlock, he didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t think I had the authority to question him or something. So I demanded an answer, ordered him to he tell me why he took Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, raising troubled eyes to meet his brother’s, “All he said was, ‘Mine’.” 

Sherrinford blinked in stunned disbelief and sat down heavily in an adjacent chair. When found his voice again, it sounded shaky even to his own ears. “So, what was that last thing he said, Mike? As you were leaving?”

Mycroft grew pale and shuddered, not even noticing his brother’s use of the hated nickname. “He said, ‘Mate’.”


	4. A Meeting of Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that John Watson's motives have been partially revealed, how will Sherlock figure into his scheme?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Space AU art by Johnlocking-always.tumblr.com

The light seemed a lot brighter than it needed to be when Sherlock finally, blearily opened his eyes. His head was aching like he’d been on a bender last night. _Weird_ , he thought, _What happened last night? I mean, I don’t usually drink._ _Must have been a special occasion…_ _Oh, shit!_

One look around and Sherlock was able to figure out where he was. Rather than safe and secure in his personal bunk, he was currently being spooned by a homicidal alien named John Watson. Or, at least that’s what he’d been called the _last_ time he was on Earth. His real name was unknown and, frankly, unimportant at this precise moment. What mattered now was determining how he was going to get out of this room alive. Without moving his body, he craned his neck to see if there was anyone was in the observation pod and was relieved to see both of his older brothers inside, deep in conversation. It was Dr. Hooper who first noticed Sherlock’s furtive movements and brought it to the attention of Sherrinford and Mycroft.

 _“_ Help! _”_ he mouthed, eyes exaggeratedly wide as he waved a free hand from the wrist excitedly. Both Sherrinford and Mycroft leaned over the console in front of the window, Sherrinford mouthing something while pointing at the door; Mycroft just standing there, mouth agape in dismay. Sherlock shifted his eyes toward the door and saw it opening, slowly and silently. Lestrade, still bandaged from his last interview with John Watson, was motioning for Sherlock to come to him. He had been pretty badly beaten up, so Sherlock could deduce that Lestrade didn’t want to enter that room any more than Sherlock wanted to be there.

He began testing his position, how tightly his captor was holding him. John seemed to be asleep, limbs draped more than wrapped around his body. Sherlock carefully, gently moved the alien’s limbs from their positions about his body and legs. He noted that the fabric on the back of his uniform seemed to be stiff and lightly adhering to John’s clothing, and there was an unpleasant metallic smell he readily identified as blood. _Which of us is injured?_ he wondered as he slid out of John’s possessive embrace. He didn’t feel any pain or injury as he moved his own body, so he assumed it had to have been John.

On his hands and knees, Sherlock began to crawl stealthily toward the door. _Easy, easy does it, I can get there, it’s not that far…_

He looked up to see a horrified look on Lestrade’s face just as an iron grip latched onto his ankle and dragged him backwards, accompanied by some rather intimidating growling. Sherlock looked over his shoulder in alarm as he scrambled to hold on to the base of the bunk, to no avail. John, the entire front of his body covered in dried blood, bared his teeth as he grabbed higher up on Sherlock’s leg and drew him into his grasp once again. Sherlock heard his eldest brother’s voice ordering soldiers to enter the room immediately, intent on rescuing his youngest sibling, but the soldiers were reluctant, especially those who had tangled with John before.

Impossibly strong arms and legs wrapped around Sherlock once again, yet, strangely, Sherlock didn’t feel threatened. Instead, he felt oddly… _protected_. The growling, threatening sounds John made—some form of the Atraxi language, Sherlock surmised—were never directed at _Sherlock_ but, rather, at those who would _rescue_ Sherlock _._ He turned his head cautiously to regard his captor, whose chin was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, and was rewarded with something almost like an affectionate nuzzle. Large, slate blue eyes examined his face wordlessly. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he smiled, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.

“Tsherlok,” he purred, his voice soft and rich, even soothing. The arms surrounding his shoulders held him close but did not imprison him. Instead, the hands seemed to caress Sherlock’s chest, much as a child would cradle a treasured pet. _My Tsherlock_ , he heard a voice inside his head, just above his left ear. _I have finally found you. I will protect you from these others who would take you away from me again._

 _How do I know him?_ Sherlock thought to himself. He remembered how, at the crater, the alien had seemed to make a bee-line right for him, going through every one else in the process without concern for his own safety—or theirs. _Why is he so familiar? I’ve never met him before._

 A low laugh escaped John’s throat. _I can hear you, Tsherlock. Our bond is strong. Your thoughts are clear in my head. Ask and I will answer. Those others…_ he spat in contempt, _do not deserve my words._ His smile broadened. _It pleases me that you are so beautiful, Tsherlok. I barely remember our first meeting, we were so young, but I had hoped that you would be pleasant to the eye._ A gentle nip to the side of Sherlock’s neck made John’s interest clear and sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

 Sherlock turned his eyes toward the control pod window where his brothers still stood, watching and debating their next course of action. Lestrade remained at the doorway and had been joined by Dimmock, looking the worse for wear after his run-in at the crater. All eyes were on Sherlock and his captor. Sherrinford barked an order and Lestrade, Dimmock, and another soldier entered the cell, batons at the ready. Sherlock held up his hands and mouthed, _NO_ , his face alarmed. John reacted to the intrusion by releasing Sherlock and taking up a crouching position between the soldiers and his prize.

 John snarled a warning, his hands curled into claws. Sherlock heard him scream, over and over again in his mind, _Get back! This is my mate! Mine! You cannot take him!_ _He is mine!_

 “Sherri! Call off your men! He won’t harm me! He thinks I’m his mate!” Sherlock yelled. He scrambled to his feet and threw his arms around John, trying to pull him away from the advancing soldiers. _John, stop! Please stop! They’ll hurt you to get to me!_

 _Let them try!_ John shrugged Sherlock off, pushing him back to safety against the bunk. He launched himself into the midst of the soldiers before Sherlock could regain his footing. Fists and feet were flying as he defended himself against his assailants, only to be overcome by numbers and weaponry. They tased him repeatedly and beat him with clubs until he lay bloodied and unmoving on the floor, barely breathing. Sherlock cried out in despair, his mind suddenly on fire, and, without understanding why, threw himself at Lestrade and the others, striking and cursing them vehemently until they were able to subdue and sedate him.

 >>>***<<<

 Mycroft paced beside the bed where Sherlock was restrained and narcotized, while Sherrinford sat in a chair nearby, watching him move back and forth. Finally he said, wearily, “Will you please sit down, Mike? This isn’t helping.”

 “Oh, and you are?” Mycroft snapped back. He gestured, first at Sherlock and then at the stranger in the next bed. Both were dressed in clean clothes and restrained in bed, the stranger freshly bandaged but barely alive. “What in hell happened here? We go in to rescue our brother from this… _bastard_ , and end up having to save our men from _both of them_.”

 Sherrinford sighed. “Well, Sherlock _did_ warn us not to interfere. Maybe this ‘bond’ thing the Atraxi told us about has affected Sherlock’s mind.” He rubbed his eyes before continuing. “Have you contacted the Atraxi representative about this?”

 Mycroft snorted delicately. “More like they contacted _us_. Seems _this one_ ,” he nodded toward John, “jumped ship as they were passing Earth, just leapt out an airlock without a suit, after plotting a rough trajectory to where we found him. They said he’d been agitated about something for a while but they couldn’t figure out why.” He looked at Sherlock and his voice softened. “I guess _we_ know why he’s here.”

 “Maybe, but we have bigger questions right now, like why is John _still alive_ after falling to earth, having been shot in the chest, _and_ almost being beaten to death. I’d also like to know what effect this ‘bonding’ thing might have on our brother. I think we saw just the tip of that iceberg today. And I don’t even want to _think_ about how we’re going to explain _any_ of this to Mum and Dad.”

 “Or the Atraxi,” Mycroft added, accompanied by an elegant eye roll.

 >>>***<<<

 Sherlock knew he was dreaming. The sky was the wrong color, the sea didn’t move right, and the grass was in interesting shade of…purple. Rocky promontories created a sort of half-moon bay. There was a scent in the air that he couldn’t identify, nothing _unpleasant_ or anything like that. A warm breeze ruffled his hair, causing some of his curls to cascade into his eyes. He’d meant to get a haircut a few days ago but had gotten all tangled up in some research before the stranger arrived. _Arrived_ , he thought with a small laugh. More like wiped out a good section of forest, narrowly missed several villages, and nearly hit 221Baker. That was about as pinpoint a landing as one could ask for, considering how far outside the Earth’s atmosphere it came from. Sherlock looked up at the pinkish “clouds” floating overhead as that thought occurred to him. Perhaps this was a depiction of John’s native world, although how he got here was a mystery.

 “I brought you here, of course,” a voice drifted to his ears from over to his right. He turned to see John, fully healed and healthy and completely naked, walking leisurely toward him. Sherlock couldn’t help but admire his form in this venue. He moved like a predatory animal, powerful and agile yet finely controlled. John’s head canted to one side as he watched Sherlock’s eyes rake up and down his body, a small, pleased smile on his lips as he watched Sherlock’s reaction. “This is my favorite location on my home world. It occupies a special place in my mind. I had always hoped that, somehow, I could find you and bring you here, to share this with you.”

 “Is that where we are now? Inside your mind? My last memory…”

 “Was of me being beaten senseless by your soldiers, yes. If I hadn’t been wounded previously, you’re intervention would not have been needed. After all, _I_ am the soldier, not you. That is _my_ gift, as your genius is yours.”

 Sherlock looked down pensively and kicked at the strangely-hued grass at his feet. It was only then that he realized that he was as unclothed as John was. _The naked intellect_ …the concept passed through his mind briefly. He raised his head and asked, “Why would you want to find me, to bring me here, with you?”

 John looked out over the silent sea before walking to its edge and brushing his toes in it, making rings which traveled outward, overlapping until they faded from view. He half-turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Our bond is incomplete, even now. Have you ever wondered why you have been unable to find satisfactory companionship among your own people? Why you are so academically brilliant, yet your emotions seem to be…how shall I put it… _off-line_ somehow?”

 “Yes,” Sherlock responded quietly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I have wondered those things, and more. Why am I so… _different_ from everyone else, including my own family? _Especially_ my own family. Some call me a freak, others actively _avoid_ me, as though I’m some ticking time bomb about to explode.”

 John turned to fully face Sherlock. “They sense that you are different on a fundamental basis, just as I am. My own people have treated me as yours have treated you. Years ago, I was told about what happened to me, how I lost my parents. They also told me what happened when you and I…touched. The bond formed then but it never had the chance to mature, to develop into what it should have become, because I was taken away.” He walked languidly forward, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest. The touch, rather than the warm breeze, sent a shiver through him. John smiled. “Do I make you nervous, Tsherlok? Have I done anything to make you think I would ever harm you?” His dusty-blue eyes, large and curious, met Sherlock’s blue-green ones and held them, captivated by what he saw there. His other hand reached up, fingertips resting lightly on Sherlock’s cheek in the gentlest of touches. “So beautiful,” he murmured, his eyelids half-closed. “You’re distracting me from what I must do…”

 “And what is that, John?” Sherlock half-whispered, reluctant to break the spell to which he was also falling prey.

 John smiled, took a deep breath and forced himself back a step. “You will wait here for me, Tsherlok, where you are safe. I will return for you shortly and then…” He disappeared, a whirlwind of empty air left where he had once stood. Sherlock started, searching around him anxiously as he called out. “John? JOHN? Where…?”

 Suddenly he felt something warm and substantial, yet invisible, wrap around his naked body and embrace him, providing comfort, warmth, and… it almost felt like _affection_. _Be calm_ , a gentle voice said, _I will return to you soon._

 >>>***<<<

 “All right,” Sherrinford huffed, barely maintaining his composure, “Tell me what happened. Leave _nothing_ out.”

 Mycroft looked far less forgiving. “Yes, explain to us again how both my brother and the alien _just_ _happened_ to disappear from under the noses of _a full contingent_ of soldiers standing guard outside this very door.” He said, venom dripping from his every word. He tapped his umbrella aggressively on the tile floor, his expression making it clear he’d prefer to be sticking the ferrule into someone’s eye instead.

 Sherrinford held up a placating hand, his voice barely controlled. “Calm down, Mike. We’ll find them. I can’t believe the alien would harm Sherlock. He’s had too many opportunities to do that already and he hasn’t.” His eyes scanned the two empty beds, both with broken restraints still tied to their frames. Some of them looked as though they had been chewed through. Lying on the floor, and propped against the footboards, were the battered, moaning bodies of the guards Sherrinford had left on watch when he and Mycroft had left to get some much-needed sleep. Sherrinford knew what they had been through—he was still hurting from his last run-in with John Watson. “I’ve ordered every soldier without other duties to be looking for them. They can’t have gone far. John was in pretty bad shape when we left and Sherl was still heavily sedated.”

 “Bollocks,” Mycroft muttered. “John Watson is the ultimate soldier—haven’t you figured that out yet? According to the Atraxi, he and Sherlock brought something out in each other. They each became something… _more_.” Mycroft nervously tapped his umbrella on the floor. “Sherlock became a bloody genius, while John—he’s jumped out of a spaceship, plummeted miles to earth and survived, was shot in the chest and nearly had his head cracked open and he _still_ manages to kidnap our brother, taking down several guards in the process. He’s practically unstoppable, heals ridiculously fast, learns and adapts quickly to new situations…” He turned to his older brother, his face a cold mask of anger. “Dear God, I can’t imagine how you can be so calm, Sherrinford. He could be doing _anything_ to Sherlock…”

 “Mycroft!” Sherrinford pushed himself to standing. “Go make yourself useful. Take a squad and check every place they could possibly be hiding. Start with the residences. Break open doors if you have to. John Watson is clever enough to stay out of our sight and, God willing, he won’t harm Sherlock, or anyone else for that matter. I just get the feeling there’s something going on here that I’m missing…”

 “Just imagine what the Atraxi could do with an army of John Watsons,” Mycroft groused over his shoulder as he walked away.

 Sherrinford dismissed his brother with a wave of his hand and turned back to one of the battered guards, demanding a report. But Mycroft’s last observation lingered uncomfortably in his mind. _An army of John Watsons…_

 


	5. Choose and Be Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John offers Sherlock the ultimate choice--to bond or not to bond. His decision will have greater importance than even he could know.

Sherlock sat on a mossy outcropping, shivering in spite of the intangible warmth enfolding him. It was a shiver of fear, of facing the unknown alone, which had wracked his naked body. John was gone, or, at least, his mental projection was, leaving Sherlock feeling… _exposed_ wasn’t exactly the best word but it would have to do. He almost expected some sort of strange predator or monster to come bounding around a corner and attack him, but soon realized it was just his imagination working overtime. John would never leave him in a dangerous situation. _How would I know that? I mean, he’s mentally kidnapped me, for God’s sake, with no way out. Truth to tell, I don’t know anything about him…_

Except he _did_. He _did_ know John, despite not having seen him since he was a toddler. He _knew_ John wouldn’t hurt him; he _knewknewknew_ _with a certainty_ somehow, that John had been _looking for him_ back at the crater. _It’s like Sherri said_ , he thought, _there’s must be some kind of link between us…_                                             

“Sorry for the delay.” John suddenly appeared from, apparently, nowhere, striding purposefully toward Sherlock. He was still naked but appeared to be somehow more… _robust_ than before, almost glowing with energy. Sherlock rose uncertainly to his feet, wondering what his next course of action should be. “I needed to secrete both of our bodies away until the searchers were gone. This should allow us time to recover from our last struggle back in the cell. We are currently inside your sleeping room with the door locked and barricaded with a dresser. Since I waited until the soldiers had searched there and moved on, they shouldn’t be back for a while.” 

“Our _bodies_?” Sherlock asked sharply, one eyebrow raised in inquery. “Are we…” 

John smiled, amused at Sherlock’s thinly-veiled concern. “Our physical forms are safe and healthy. _Your_ body is still lightly sedated, while _mine_ is healing rapidly from its most recent injuries. I had to move both of us out of the healing room to complete our bonding process.” He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Your brother’s soldiers didn’t make easy, but that little skirmish certainly got the blood flowing again.” He flexed his shoulders as if to loosen them, which promptly got Sherlock’s attention and admiration. John noticed this, and grinned in pleasure. He walked— _glided_ , more like—toward Sherlock and waved his hand, dispelling the warm air around him. “That will no longer be necessary now that I am here.” John laid a hand flat against Sherlock’s chest. “Do you like what you see, Tsherlok?” he purred, half-lidded dark eyes looking up at him. 

Sherlock had to admit, he _did_ like what he saw, for the first time in his life. He had always been incredibly disinterested in such things up until now. He swallowed hard and gnawed his lower lip, trying to control his physical reactions to this sensuous, dangerous man who was only barely touching his naked body. Gooseflesh starting to erupt on his fair skin as John leaned closer, saying, “Let me do that for you,” as his teeth gently, but not the least bit tentatively, caught at Sherlock’s lower lip, pulling it from Sherlock’s own teeth. He ran his tongue over the part of it inside his own mouth, resulting is a sharp intake of breath from his willing captive. He sucked the rest of the lip inside, holding it captive as he slid his free hand around the small of Sherlock’s back and drew him against his body. 

The feel of John’s smaller, muscular body against his own almost short-circuited Sherlock’s brain right then and there. It took all of his not-inconsiderable will to reorganize his thoughts while being so thoroughly seduced. _I have questions_ , he thought as he pushed his own body forward into the embrace, sliding his arms around John’s chest and neck and bending his head into an open-mouthed kiss that made his knees feel a little weak. 

_I know you do_ , he heard John say. _I hear your innermost thoughts in this place, not merely the surface ones. You want to know why I have come back for you._ John’s hand shifted from Sherlock’s chest to the back of his head, where his fingers intertwined in the thick curls at the nape of his neck. His pelvis pressed in against Sherlock, moving slowly and sinuously. Sherlock could feel _something_ stirring down there, something he had always thought of as a nuisance in his younger days, a distraction to his cool analytical process. 

_Yes_ , he thought back _. I need…I need…Oh, God, I can’t concentrate with what you’re doing to me. How? We’re only mind…mind constructs, aren’t we?_ He could feel John’s hand skimming downward, over his tantalized skin, to cup his buttocks and squeeze lasciviously. A breathy, muted moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth, now engaged in a possessive battle of lips with his would-be alien lover. 

_Not completely, my beautiful one. We are made up of both mental constructs and physical representations, still firmly attached to our resident bodies. What you feel is what your body feels. My body is awake, yours only now awakening from twilight consciousness, yet both are engaging one another in the real world to the best of their abilities. As they strengthen, our interaction will become more physical and less mental until we are both fully present in reality._

_Oh, God, the sensations_ , Sherlock moaned. _How could it feel this good? It’s never felt this good, to be touched, ever. How can I be feeling such…such…_ His head fell back as John released his lips and began tenderly savaging his throat— licking, kissing, and sucking greedily, sometimes administering shallow bites that left lurid reddish marks upon the pallid flesh. 

“Shhh. Do not question it, do not distract yourself with such thoughts. This is all part of our bonding, the part that should have taken place years ago. Only the intellectual part of the bond was in effect, was completed at our last joining in the cell. That is why you could finally hear me in your mind. But other parts are incomplete. The walls are too strong. They must be…bypassed,” John said, pushing Sherlock backward until they reached a soft mass of grass, then slowly laying him down upon it. He gazed down at Sherlock with a heated gaze as he lay on top of him, moving his body like a snake, smiling at the sounds his movements elicited from his appreciative audience. 

_Why this way, John?_ Sherlock asked, barely able to retain his faculties as John, once again, kissed him into submission. _Aren’t there…other…oh, John…yes, there. More there…_

Sherlock heard John’s laughter. _You are the talkative one, but not in a good way! Too many questions! All right, I will allow you one more. We are doing it this way because, for sexually active adults, it is the easiest way to break down barriers, to access the emotional content most quickly. I suppose I could have gotten you inebriated or chemically compromised to accomplish the same purpose, but that lacks… finesse, as well as consent. I would not want you to come into me, to complete our bond, against your will. This is your choice, is it not?_ He pulled out of the kiss, stopped all movement and conversation, as he awaited Sherlock’s response, head canted to one side in query. 

Sherlock keenly felt the loss of sensation, of _connection_ , between them, yet he still asked, “What if I refuse?” His prismatic eyes met John’s intense blue. “What would happen then?” 

The sadness on John’s face clenched at Sherlock’s heart with icy fingers. John closed his eyes, as if he had seen something profoundly distressing. “A bonding takes two above-average beings and creates something exceptional by enhancing the skills of both, mentally and physically. If the bonding is successful, the two become bondmates—complements of each other and extraordinary in their own way. An incomplete or unsuccessful bonding results in,” and here he grimaced, “imbalance. The two may still be exceptional but they are not…what they could be together. They are not a finished product. You have eschewed emotional and physical intimacy in exchange for mental brilliance and acuity. I, on the other hand, have very limited control over my emotions and aggressive tendencies. When I lose control I also lose my intellect. I become little more than a beast. Uncontrollable. Uncontainable. That is why my people were bringing me back here—to try to find you, to complete the bonding, so that, perhaps, I would become controllable. I escaped and found you myself.” He turned his head away in embarrassment. “Being the perfect soldier is one thing; being a weapon that can destroy, not only your enemy but yourself as well, is not such a good thing. And the threat of death to control someone only works if that person fears death. I do not.” _  
_

Sherlock grasped the back of John’s neck and shook him. “What would happen to you if this bond is not consummated, John?” 

John opened his eyes and fixed them on Sherlock’s. He looked miserable. “Since I can’t be safely kept imprisoned or restrained by any methods known to Atraxi, due to my ability to regenerate and my berserker rages, they would probably just shoot me into the sun and be rid of me. This is my last chance for survival.” Sherlock looked horrified and covered his mouth with his hand. “You would fare far better. You would still be a genius, but you would never know…well, what you have just had a taste of. Love. Emotional connection and joining. Intimacy. Is that what you want, Tsherlok?” John’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I don’t care for myself, dear one. My death would be the end of my suffering, but you would likely live a long but emotionally bereft life. This is the choice you face.” _  
_

Sherlock was stunned. The unfairness, the brutality of this choice was overwhelming. It wasn’t a choice at all, really. John would be destroyed by his own people and he himself would live a life without any emotional connection to others. John was right; he had experienced the barest taste of what life with intimacy would be like and he wanted more. Much more. And he wanted it with John. 

“My God, John, I can’t… Sherlock uncharacteristically stumbled over his words, overwhelmed by the price John would have to pay if their bond was incomplete. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to this man, he knew that with a blinding certainty. 

John sighed and nearly collapsed in disappointment. “I’m sorry, Tsherlok. I will not trouble you any more,” John murmured as he pushed away. 

“What? John…” Sherlock said, confused and hurt, until he realized that John must have mistaken his verbal incompetence for rejection. His hand, which was still behind John’s neck, dragged his lover down onto his chest before flipping them both over so that he was on top, pinning John beneath him. Initially, John seemed perplexed until Sherlock leaned down and assaulted his lips with deep, probing kisses designed to convey his true intentions. John’s strong, muscular arms encircled Sherlock’s chest, his hands roaming across and down his back, exploring every inch of him within reach. One of John’s hands sought to grasp Sherlock’s butt cheek as one knee, then the other, forced his legs apart until Sherlock was straddling John’s thighs. 

John’s hips began rocking up against Sherlock’s, pushing his thighs farther apart and rutting into his crotch. Sherlock responded by thrusting his hips and burgeoning erection into John’s taut belly. Their mouths attempted to devour each other’s; their hot, breathy moans saturating the air around them as each attempted to practically crawl inside the other’s skin. Sherlock’s intellect, of which he had always been so proud, finally deserted him utterly, leaving only aching need and want for John’s body and the erotic sensations it provided. He wanted _John_ , in his entirety--the man he hadn’t even known existed only a few days ago. Their bodies writhed against each other; hands, mouths, bodies, cocks—all seeking new forms of carnal pleasure, of raw animal gratification. 

_This is so different from just wanking off_ , the thought wandered through Sherlock’s mind as he reached between their bodies to explore John’s stiff cock, surprised by its size and heft. Pleasuring himself had always pretty much left him cold, something he had only ever been done to relieve tension, if then. He’d never had any desire for a lover or even pondered a preference overmuch. It had always been about the work. Intellectual stimulation was what he had lived for. Stroking John’s erection and hearing him gasp, feeling him jump and buck beneath him, was giving Sherlock ideas he had never entertained before. Now the main thing he wanted was…God, did he really want _that_? _Really_? John’s sexual influence had taken Sherlock totally off guard, made him crave the physical, the sensual, the emotional contact he had eschewed all his life. 

Sherlock tore himself away from John’s hungry mouth and grasping hands and sat astride John’s groin, settled along the length of his huge cock, reaching back to stroke and fondle his heavy ballsack. He rolled his hips suggestively and watched, fascinated, as John reacted to his movement, to the feel of his clever hands stroking John’s belly and chest, pinching and rubbing his nipples. Sherlock had no idea how he knew to do these things but, considering where they were, he had taken John’s advice and ceased to question it. 

Leaning down, Sherlock nipped and nibbled at John’s throat, eliciting gasps of delight as John extended his powerful neck for further attentions. He felt John’s hands playing over the muscles of his back, finally reaching down to clutch Sherlock’s hips, guiding his movements even as his own hips ground upwards against his lover’s. They pushed and writhed against each other, tension building, sensation spiraling upwards to a place where intellect was cast aside in favor of pure rutting pleasure. 

With an effort of will, John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hipbones and dragged him upwards to straddle his chest just below his shoulders. Looking up into Sherlock’s glazed eyes with a wicked smile, he gently guided Sherlock’s erection to his mouth, lapping the underside and encircling the dusky head before inserting it into his mouth and sucking lightly, rubbing his tongue on the underside. He watched intently as Sherlock’s eyes closed, his mouth opened in a silent “Oh”, and his head fell backward. Long, delicate fingers reached down to encircle the back of John’s head, fingertips gliding through the cropped blond hair as his hips thrust spasmodically with every lick and suck. _OhGodohGodohGod_ , was all Sherlock could manage, unable to think coherently. 

Cool, unusually-slick fingers traced a circular pattern around his anus, causing the muscle to contract involuntarily. Sherlock’s butt cheeks clenched as he felt a finger pressing in against the center of the sphincter, prying it open oh-so-gently, teasing it with tiny thrusts until it loosened enough to allow entry. The feeling of that one finger bypassing his barrier made Sherlock hiss through his teeth. It was an alien sensation but it still felt… _good_. So good. The farther in it went, the better it felt, and that didn’t include when it started stroking one particular spot…”Christ!” he yelled as the finger found that magic gland and pressed firmly against it. It felt as though his erection had turned from flesh into blue steel, forged by the heat at its base which was stoked higher and higher with each touch. 

After a minute of two of insanely good manipulations, the finger withdrew, only to be joined by another, widening his orifice even more, bringing with it the first twinges of pain. Strangely, it wasn’t what he would have identified as pain at any other time. Rather, it was a _good_ pain—it blended in with the pleasurable sensation of stretching, making it edgier, a touch more dangerous. When _both_ fingers found that spot, Sherlock felt for sure he would hit the moon, the heat and pressure heightened _so much_. As they eventually withdrew, John, having removed Sherlock’s cock from his mouth just prior to a third finger being added, advised him to bear down as he inserted them. Sherlock did so as three thick, short fingers entered him. The pressure, the _pleasure_ of it, caused him to rise up involuntarily to his knees and cry out, his sphincter gripping John’s fingers as though his life depended on it. John slowly, gently worked his fingers deeper inside, allowing Sherlock time to adjust. “Breathe. Slowly. That’s right. Easy. You’ll get used to it. There you go,” John counseled, his own voice trembling with restrained passion. As Sherlock relaxed somewhat, with John’s fingers still firmly embedded inside him, John asked, “Are you certain you want to go this route, Tsherlok? There are other ways…” 

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, taking measured breaths which became longer and slower with continued effort. “I want to do this, with you. But, I didn’t say anything, so how did you know…?” He finally opened his eyes and looked down at John, who smirked up at him. “Oh, right, telepathy.” John nodded, amused. “I guess I don’t need to ask where the lube came from…” 

John snorted laughter. “Hardly. I found that before I rejoined you here. Remember, we are at an interface between what exists in the mind and what exists in the real world. How else could I be doing this,” he wiggled his fingers inside Sherlock and watched, amused, as he jump in surprise, “with such ease? It would have been much less enjoyable without it.” He could feel Sherlock relaxing around the intrusion as they spoke. With his other hand he reached behind to do something Sherlock couldn’t see but could guess. The thought filled him with both excitement and trepidation. John’s fingers withdrew, leaving a strangely empty feeling behind that Sherlock didn’t particularly like. He wanted more; he just wasn’t sure _how much_ more. 

Strong hands lifted and repositioned Sherlock back across John’s hips again, where Sherlock could feel John’s erect cock, coated with a wet, slippery substance, pressing against his cleft. Deftly, John positioned the head of his cock against Sherlock’s arsehole. Sherlock felt an insistent push, the head pressing against his anus, stretching it open slowly. “Deep breaths, love. Bear down,” John whispered when he saw Sherlock’s eyes fly open in shock. He stopped moving until he could feel Sherlock beginning to relax, then he pressed inward again, slowly, lovingly. It all felt so tight inside; Sherlock had never done this before and had no idea what to expect. When the head of John’s cock passed the ring of muscle, Sherlock felt a sort of ‘pop’ and the stretching became slightly less. He breathed a sigh of relief, breathing deeply. 

He felt John’s eyes on him but wasn’t ready to meet them yet. It all felt so…intimate, invasive, as though the last bastion of his defenses had been breached, yet they hadn’t been. Not yet. He still had some of his control. He hadn’t lost _that_ yet and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, even with John. It frightened him, losing all that made him what he was at his very core. He froze, the weight of his body suspended on hands that rested on John’s ribcage. He was not yet completely impaled on his lover’s erection. He could still back out. He could still… 

He could feel powerful hands slowly pressing down on his hips, sliding him down John’s not-inconsiderable length and girth. _Resist now or forever hold your peace_ , he thought with a huff of laughter at himself for even _thinking_ such a thing. It was so much, _too_ much, and yet he wanted more. He wanted _all of it_ deep inside. He wanted to _possess_ it, make it _part of him_. Lower he went and the pressure became deeper, fuller, an inexorable movement inward until he felt he would burst open, and even _that_ would be good. He moaned achingly, from his core, calling out to God and John in his desire for more, until his asshole was flush against John’s groin and he was sitting astride the most magnificent sex organ he could have ever imagined. 

“Give me your hands,” he heard and he complied. Eyes closed, he felt John match his palms to Sherlock’s and intertwine their fingers, just as he had done in the cell. This time, however, it felt like a warm current of water flowing between their hands, accompanied by a tingly “buzz”, instead of the neural explosion they experienced the last time. “The more your barriers fall, the faster the bond will be completed,” John said, hoarsely. The strain he was under made his voice gravelly and rough. Sherlock could hear the shear _want_ in his words. If Sherlock had not been virginal, he was sure that John would have just fucked him senseless on the spot. As it was, John’s restraint was admirable, all the more so because it was new. This was no berserker, no mindless beast. This was a caring lover who wanted his partner to enjoy his first sexual experience rather than be taken by force. That thought filled Sherlock with such a feeling of tenderness and gratitude toward John that he could feel his eyes filling with tears, which he couldn’t brush away because his hands were preoccupied. He swallowed as many tears as he could but some still leaked out. 

“Tsherlok,” he heard, and opened his eyes to John’s concerned gaze. “Am I hurting you? Should we stop?” he asked in the softest voice of which he was capable. Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “No,” he mouthed, leaning down as far as he could to kiss John’s chest. He straightened up, allowing John’s cock to withdraw to just behind the head, then sank back down on it with a gut-wrenching groan, one that was echoed by his partner. He rose and sank again, repeating this movement over and over again, each time feeling the delicious pressure, the excruciating fullness, anew. Each new cycle ratcheted up the tension in his body, especially since John’s cock was wide enough, firm enough, to constantly rub against that delightful spot deep inside. Sherlock leaned hard against John’s hands as John’s fraying self-control snapped and he started thrusting upward, deepening each stroke and bouncing Sherlock against his pubic bone. Sherlock’s erection was bouncing against John’s belly, becoming more sensitive with each stroke of John’s cock against his prostate until, finally, the heat and pressure that had been building up inside Sherlock’s groin sought immediate release. With his teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut, Sherlock crossed the threshold, his cock spewing forth hot liquid silk in streamers across his partner’s chest and belly. His breath came in ragged gasps, interspersed with moans he didn’t even try to restrain, repeating John’s name over and over again, like a sacred mantra. 

At about the same time, he felt a… _shifting_ of energy around him;his body was coming out of its twilight consciousness, just as John had warned him. The purple grass was gradually fading into wrinkled white sheets, and the sound of the wind disappeared, to be replaced by the noises native to a busy military base. His vision lust-hazed, Sherlock could barely see that John’s own face was contorted, pre-orgasmic, as his body pursued its own course, seeking release. Sherlock could _feel_ it, how close he was. While Sherlock himself was still riding an ecstatic high, he could feel John pumping his cock into him as clearly as he could feel himself _around_ John, taking him in, embracing him tightly with anal muscles and thighs and clenched fingers. He felt himself, his individuality, slipping away. _I_ became _we_ , _me_ became _us_ , _my_ became _our_ as John finally climaxed, erupting into his lover again and again, as their bond was finally forged in the heat and fire of their joining. All walls were torn asunder, each finally surrendering to the other, melting together into one blissful entity, joined in an indestructible bond, the best of two worlds. 

Once the wave of their pleasure had been ridden to completion, Sherlock collapsed, nerveless, on top of John in his bunk. He felt their hands disengage, one of John’s threading its way into his disheveled hair, the other wrapping protectively around his shoulder. His eyes drifted shut as he and John shared one final thought. 

“I love you.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their bonding completed, Sherlock and the alien warrior John Watson now face a new threat, one which may tear them apart and bring madness in its wake.

Sherlock awoke slowly to the impatient sound of an umbrella ferrule being rhythmically tapped on the linoleum floor, followed by an urgent prodding into his ribs. As he stirred, he vaguely heard the sound of guns being cocked.

 

“My God, Mycroft, could you be any _less_ subtle?” he slurred, still sleepy and sated.

 

Beneath him, he could feel John stirring. A growl rumbled through his chest as his body tensed ever-so-slightly…

 

“Shhh,” Sherlock whispered, rubbing his hand soothingly over John’s chest. The growl subsided, but not the tension.

 

Sherlock turned his head to face his obviously-annoyed brother and cracked open one eye.

 

“And could _you_ be any more obviously ‘fraternizing with the enemy’ than _you_ are, brother mine?” Mycroft retorted, tartly.

 

Anger flared in his mind. Not his. John’s.

 

“John says, ‘Fuck off, Mycroft’,” Sherlock drawled, allowing his eyes to slide closed again. “I concur.”

 

Mycroft went livid. “ _Get_ _up out of that bed, Sherlock Holmes_!” he blustered, grabbing Sherlock’s arm, “or I swear I’ll…”

 

Later on, Sherlock decided that he should have done something more, something _different_ , to change the outcome of that situation _before_ it happened. As it was, Mycroft had committed a cardinal sin in John’s eyes; he had laid his hands on Sherlock in anger. Pushing Sherlock aside, John leapt out of the bed and, stark naked, crossed the room to pin Mycroft to the wall by his neck, one-handedly, before anyone could react. Even the guards were shocked momentarily.

 

“John, no!” Sherlock yelled, but it was already too late. One guard had overcome his shock more quickly than his companions and was taking aim at John. “Stop! They’ll shoot…”

 

The guard had a clean shot and put a bullet into John’s side, easily missing Mycroft. John jerked at the impact but his hand didn’t release Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft was still in mid-air, squirming, trying to breathe, when…

 

John released him and sank to the floor as if boneless. Blood pumped from the chest wound, creating a bright crimson puddle around him. Sherlock threw himself, equally as naked, atop John’s body, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding from a point-blank wound. He could hear John’s labored breathing, the gurgle of blood entering the lungs, as he coughed out bright red froth. Tears streamed down Sherlock’s face as he begged his lover not to die.

 

Mycroft found himself sitting on the floor, rubbing his neck ruefully. “Off hand, I would say that your friend… _overreacted_ a bit,” he rasped, drastically underplaying the scene that had just erupted.

 

Sherlock rounded on him with unconcealed wrath. “This is _your_ fault, Mycroft! Why didn’t you just _leave us alone?_ ” he yelled. He caressed John’s hair as the smaller man tried to breathe through the blood constricting his heart and lungs. “If he dies…”

 

“If he dies, it will be a _bloody miracle_!” Mycroft snapped back, his voice still rough. He pointed in emphasis. “This… _alien_ …survived a fall from outer space and a crash landing into the ground at _terminal velocity_ without a scratch! Do you _really_ think a single bullet wound will kill him? We already _tried_ that! Remember when he _took you prisoner_?” he spat out. “My God, Sherlock, what has gotten into you?”

 

_Him, obviously_ , Sherlock thought, of the moment. He turned his attention back to John, who was now breathing more easily. His lover looked up at him and smiled painfully in reassurance. Their eyes locked.

 

_Don’t worry about me, Tsherlok. I will heal, as I have always done. But you should warn others that I do not take kindly to anyone manhandling my mate._ A dull orange anger flooded Sherlock’s thoughts. **_Or_** _treating him with disrespect_. Sherlock nodded.

 

“What did he say?” Mycroft asked, as he regained his feet with the assistance of one of the guards.

 

Sherlock ignored him for a moment, then asked, without looking up, “What makes you think he said _anything_?”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, _PLEASE_ , Sherlock, give me _some_ credit. When you two lock eyes, you’re communicating telepathically, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock smirked defiantly as he replied, “How do you know we’re not simply eye-fucking?” John chuckled weakly, his strength returning once the bleeding had ceased. Sherlock held him in his arms tenderly, bringing his forehead down to rest against John’s.

 

_You may as well tell him. I can see he will be quite annoying otherwise._

 

Sherlock nodded slightly. _Yes, he has always been like that._

 

After a moment, Sherlock raised his head and said, “You’re right, for once. We _do_ have a strong telepathic connection, now that we are fully bonded.”

 

“’Bonded’,” Mycroft repeated, paling slightly. “What does that entail, if I might ask?”

 

“First thing, call off your men, Mycroft,” Sherlock commanded. “I don’t want this to escalate further. _Then_ I will tell you what you want to know. In conference, with Sherrinford.” He looked down into John’s brightening blue eyes. “There are things you need to know, and soon.”

 

Mycroft nodded, then waved the men away. “Go. Leave us.”

 

The leader of the guards came forward. “But, sir…”

 

With an ill-concealed show of impatience, Mycroft said, “As I said, Captain, _leave_. I am in no danger while my brother is present.” He waved him away with one hand, as though dismissing a child.

 

The guard gave John and Mycroft the same dirty look before ordering his men to evacuate the room. His derisive snort could be heard plainly as he shut the door behind him.

 

“There’s one man who will never see Major,” Mycroft said, vindictively.

 

Sherlock smiled down at John as his face returned to its normal color.

 

“Now, would the two of you mind terribly getting dressed and coming with me to the main conference room? I will arrange for a meeting with our brother and his chiefs of staff. We need to know what to expect now that we have our…guest here. I will wait outside. Please don’t dawdle, Sherlock.” He said as he recovered his umbrella and headed out the door. “I know how you love to tweak the brass with your antics, so _I_ will escort you there.”

 

Once the door had closed, John dragged himself to his feet, his wound already healing. Sherlock ran his fingers over the dimpled skin, watching as it visibly shifted and filled in.

 

“Amazing,” he breathed.

 

_Like you, my beautiful one._

 

Sherlock blushed as John leaned in to kiss him, holding Sherlock’s chin in his fingertips.

 

“ ** _Now_** ,” came Mycroft’s muffled voice from the other side of the door.

 

“Spoilsport,” Sherlock muttered.

 

He and John recovered their clothing from wherever it had been shed and dressed hurriedly, so as to avoid any more irritation from Mycroft’s intrusive presence. A quick damp flannel and comb and they were ready to go. Sherlock opened the door, to be greeted by his middle brother and a single guard with his gun carefully held at neutral. John’s eyes narrowed.

 

“He thinks you don’t trust him,” Sherlock clarified, his tone bland.

 

“I don’t,” Mycroft replied, just as blandly. He turned his attention to John. “No offense, but you _did_ kidnap my brother and attempt to _kill_ me.”

 

John growled something, _sotto voce_ , in his language and Sherlock said, “If he had wanted you dead, Mycroft, he would have snapped your neck. _That_ was a warning not to threaten me again.”

 

“I didn’t threat…” Mycroft started, but a look from John silenced him.

 

“John sees it differently, Myc. He’s a soldier. In his estimation, I am to be protected at all costs,” Sherlock pointed out, matter-of-factly.

 

“ _Mycroft_ ,” his brother hissed. “Is it too much of a struggle for you to use my complete name?”

 

Sherlock considered. “Yes, actually, it is. Ridiculous name, really.”

 

Mycroft smiled condescendingly. “Yes, and Sherlock is so much better. _Really_ ,” he snorted.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “John likes it. That should be enough for you,” he returned. John smirked.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The conference room table was filled to capacity by major brass but dominated by Sherrinford and Mycroft. Two guards stood next to the only door to the hallway, preventing exit or entrance of unauthorized people. A low murmur rippled around the room as Sherlock sat in the seat opposite Sherrinford at the equator of the ling oval table. John took his place behind Sherlock, refusing a seat when offered. He stood at parade rest, ever vigilant, his bright blue eyes taking in and analyzing the scenario as it unfolded, like the soldier he was. One hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers lightly touching the bare skin of his neck.

 

Sherrinford cleared his throat. The officers in the room all settled down, eyes still drifting toward John periodically with varying degrees of concern. Mycroft stood to Sherrinford’s  side, obviously more comfortable with standing as far from John as was humanly possible. Sherlock smiled lop-sidedly; Mycroft never backed down to _anyone_.

 

Anyone but John.

 

“We are gathered here to discuss the ramifications of the presence of one ‘John Watson’, extraterrestrial, in our humble facility,” Sherrinford began. His eyes met John’s and he nodded. “I welcome you, sir, although I wish we had met under less…confrontative circumstances.”

 

John, though unable to speak or understand the language, nodded as Sherlock translated telepathically.

 

Sherrinford frowned in sudden thought. “Are you able to understand us, or will I need Mycroft to translate for you?”

 

John placed both hands around Sherlock’s bare neck in a loose grip. Mycroft’s left eyebrow rose speculatively. Yet it was Sherlock who spoke.

 

“I can understand you through my bond with Sherlock, and use his words as my own. I need no translation from,” he jerked his head toward Mycroft, “ _that_ one. He attacked my mate, which I will not tolerate from _anyone_.” His eyes raked the assembled brass in the room. Sherlock himself couldn’t help but notice Sherrinford’s quirk of a smile at John’s words. _Mycroft has always been irritating, even with our parents._

 

The General repositioned himself in the chair and nodded, easily regaining control of his expression, but there was a twinkle in his eye has he continued speaking.

 

_Sherrinford likes you,_ Sherlock noted.

 

John nodded. _As he should_.

 

“If you would be so kind, could you please tell us why you have come to our planet in this manner? If you had wanted to make contact peacefully, you could have used other, more _diplomatic_ means…”

 

“No,” Sherlock’s voice replied, his tone brooking no argument. “I did not come here for any purpose but to find my mate and to complete the bonding begun so long ago. Without it, my people would be forced to dispose of me in the most permanent way possible, as I would be both uncontrollable _and_ unkillable. I was a danger to Atraxi society as I was, before completing the bond.”

 

“And that is now completed?”

 

John simply nodded. Sherlock smirked.

 

Nearby, a young adjutant whispered, behind his hand, “I hear they caught the freak taking it up the arse from this guy…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted and widened in alarm. If _he_ had heard the verbal slap, then John…

 

John released Sherlock’s neck and, at blinding speed, grabbed the adjutant by the throat and dragged him away from the table. The young man, unable to gain his footing or breathe with John’s powerful arm wrapped around his windpipe, struggled against the smaller man’s effort, but to no avail. Sherrinford and several other of the brass stood up suddenly in alarm as John backed away from the table and yelled something at Sherrinford.

 

The two armed guards at the door raised their weapons, but Mycroft’s hand stayed them. John was holding the young man between himself and the guards. Sherlock slowly rose from his seat and advanced toward John slowly. Their eyes were locked.

 

“Tell me what he said, Sherlock! Mycroft?” the General commanded.

 

Sherlock held up a hand to silence his brother. “He said he warned all of you _not_ to disrespect me. He’s asking why he shouldn’t kill ‘this impudent youth who has no understanding of discipline or honor’, his words.”

 

Sherrinford calmly considered. “A good point. He did warn us, and this soldier _did_ defy him.” He stared at the young officer, whose face was a study in terror, and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, to listen when you’re spoken to and to respect the customs of others.” He frowned. “I also don’t take kindly to your attitude toward my brother, and if I _ever_ hear someone call him a freak again or refer to his behavior in a demeaning manner, I will _personally_ take control of the matter, is that **_CLEAR_**?” His voice, commanding at the best of times, became a powerful weapon of control. He looked around the table as everyone nodded mutely. Then he smiled at Sherlock.

 

“Brother, please request that your…mate release my soldier. It’s very wasteful to dispose of potential cannon fodder like that.”  He smiled in amusement. The young soldier, however, did _not_ look amused.

 

Sherlock smirked, then spoke to John again. _You heard?_

 

_“Of course. You are an adept translator. In deference to your fondness for your brother and his respect for me, I will accede to his wishes._

 

John released the adjutant, who staggered back to the table, color finally returning to his face as he caught his breath again. Obviously scared and embarrassed, he mumbled something under his breath as he sat back down.

 

“Pardon?” The General asked. “Do you have something to say now?”

 

The adjutant just stared cluelessly at Sherrinford.

 

“An apology to both my brother and his…mate would go a long way toward you not losing rank at the first possible opportunity,” he clarified.

 

The aid leapt to his feet, incensed. “But he attacked _me_ …!”

 

“After you insulted my brother, which I _also_ heard,” Sherrinford growled. “Apologize!”

 

The young soldier sat back down and, quietly, said, “I…apologize.”

 

John, still standing where he had been, met Sherrinford’s eyes and nodded, his face grim. Sherrinford nodded back. “Let that be a lesson to us all. John Watson, if you would please resume…” He indicated, open handed, that he and Sherlock should resume their positions, which they did. John’s hands were back resting on Sherlock’s throat, but it was a touch full of affection.

 

“While we were in orbit around your planet, my ‘handlers’ were able to pinpoint where Sherlock was through our partial bond. It had been their intention to make _peaceful_ contact, but, knowing _your_ people, that would have entailed a great deal of waiting and negotiations. I was able to calculate a trajectory that took me to within a comparatively short distance of your base, so I escaped on my own and found him without governmental intervention.” His fingertips kneaded Sherlock’s neck slightly and Sherlock leaned his head back against John’s abdomen.

 

Sherrinford nodded. “So, now that you have found him and completed your ‘bonding’, what happens next?”

 

John favored Sherrinford with a lopsided smile. “Well, knowing _my_ people, they are in a confused state. The Atraxi are very deliberate in their actions. It is only the rebels, like my parents and myself, who take impulsive action. No doubt, they are debating the best course of action to take now that they have been revealed.”

 

“And then?”

 

There was a sudden worry on Sherlock’s face. “They will be coming soon to try to take me back with them. They will also negotiate for Sherlock, as well.”

 

An agitated murmur went up from the assembled brass. Sherrinford quelled it with one hand. “They will want Sherlock…?”

 

“Yes. Most certainly”

 

“Why?”

 

John shrugged. “Because, without the bond, I will be unmanageable again. I need his intellect and stability, far more than Sherlock needs my emotional completion.”

 

Mycroft spoke up for the first time. “What happens if you leave and Sherlock remains here?”

 

John glared at him before responding. “The bond between us is strong, but it _can_ be broken. Death is one way, distance is another. If our bond is stretched too far…”

 

Sherlock suddenly, uncharacteristically, began to weep, tears streaming down his face to drop off his prominent cheekbones. John leaned down and kissed the top of his head. Sherlock’s voice said, “Sherlock knows.”

 

“Well, _we_ _don’t_ ,” Mycroft sassed back. “Would you care to clarify for the rest of us?”

 

John raised his eyes and gave Mycroft a look that was full of needles and venom before replying, through Sherlock, “When the bond snaps, I will go insane. There will be nothing left of me, only the soldier, the berserker that cannot be controlled or killed. They will shoot me into the sun rather than try to harness my abilities again.”

 

“And Sherlock?”

 

“Unknown. At best, he will become what he was before—emotionless, unfeeling, bereft of any real ‘humanity’, as you would call it. At worst,” he paused, his face a mask of despair, “at worst, he will also go insane; he will still be brilliant, but his mind will become warped and unusable.” He dropped his eyes as Sherlock raised his. They gazed at each other for a very long time. No one else spoke.

 

_I won’t allow it. I won’t let them take you, John._

 

John shook his head sadly. _You won’t have a choice, my love._ _They will take me, and, possibly, you, as well, though I doubt your people will allow you to go without a fight. The Atraxi already believe that I was ‘tainted’ by my short time here, amongst your people, all those years ago, and may ‘pollute’ the purity of their society. They are incredibly xenophobic. If they took you, you would be held in strictest quarantine for the rest of your life.”_

_Do they fear what you will become if the bond breaks?_ Sherlock’s eyes were intense.

 

_Yes, deeply._

 

Sherlock’s eyes unfocused for a few moments. Suddenly, his face lit up and he smiled.

 

_I have it, John. By God, I have it!_

 

Sherlock shot out of his chair and, stopping only long enough to catch John’s face in both hands and kiss him on the lips, ran pell-mell out the automatic doors, between the two startled guards, almost without waiting for them to open. Everyone’s eyes followed him in mute astonishment, then turned back to stare at John, who returned their gaze with a casual shrug.

 

As if following some unheard call, he turned his head and ambled toward the exit doors in pursuit of his mate. Unfortunately for the two guards, who were obviously merely following orders, they stepped in front of him together, blocking his way. Just as the General opened his mouth to warn them, John grabbed each guard by the front of his uniform, slammed their backs into the door before, with the same fluid movement, tossing them both behind him into a gasping heap on the floor. Sherrinford swore quietly in either admiration or frustration. John half-turned as the doors slid open, smiled in satisfaction at the assemblage, and then sauntered down the hall after Sherlock.

 

“Imagine if we had an army of soldiers like him,” Sherrinford mused.

 

“They’d kill us all,” Mycroft sniffed. “Don’t think he is tamed by our brother. He is a beast in a uniform, and we’d best keep our guard up. You have not experienced him as I have.”

 

Sherrinford grunted assent.


	7. Chapter 7

The Atraxi were an impressive people. The tallest ones wore intricate robes of white or pastel colors, while the shorter members of the delegation were dressed in drabber, simpler garb that was still well tailored to their bodies. The entire delegation of about twelve people of both (all?) sexes stood before Sherrinford and Mycroft Holmes and _their_ delegation, comprised mostly of soldiers with wary eyes and formal uniforms. And weapons; let us not forget their weapons. This was, after all, a military base.

 

Both teams looked the other up and down with impassive faces for several minutes. Finally, Mycroft Holmes stepped forward and began to address the delegation in their mother tongue. He was suddenly halted by a short, middle-aged-looking male with thinning blond hair, who held up a hand imperiously as he stepped forward, as well.

 

“Please,” he said, in perfectly accented BBC News English, “Do not mangle our language any more than you already have, Mycroff Holmes. _I_ will speak for my hxplitern blagdarine.” At least, that’s what it _sounded_ like to the human’s ears; obviously, it was a term that had no known English equivalent.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in both surprise and affront. He had practiced hard to learn the Atraxi language as best as he could, considering their limited interaction with them the first time. Linguists had pored over the conversational records from that long-ago meeting, fleshing out the syntax and verbal reasoning, and Mycroft had studied it intensively. He had known, even then, that they would be back; the toddler John Watson’s interaction with Mycroft’s baby brother Sherlock had made that a foregone conclusion, in his brilliant tween mind.

 

His mouth flatlined, but, with cultured grace, Mycroft bowed slightly and stepped back to stand beside Sherrinford. The General leaned toward him and side-mouthed, “Cheeky little buggers, aren’t they?”

 

“Hmph,” was all Mycroft could manage at the moment. His face was a mask, but his brother could sense the anger seething beneath it.

 

The small Atraxi continued. “I am Gratsus, Speaker for the Atraxi.”

 

Sherrinford opened his mouth to speak but Gratsus interrupted him. “We do not need prolonged conversation, Warrior Leader. Take us to the one you call ‘John Watson’ and we will be on our way. Your species is too…” He shivered in revulsion, “ _juvenile_ for our interest. Therefore, we will take what is ours and retire to our own world.” He took a tentative step forward and asked, with suppressed hope in his demeanor, “This ‘John Watson’—did he find his mate? We suspect that is why he left us so… unexpectedly.”

 

The General drew himself up to his full, not-inconsiderable height—a Holmes family trait—before replying. “Yes. We apprehended him just a short distance outside this base, as a matter of fact, but, then, you _knew_ that when you came directly here without _any_ contact with _any_ Earth Government. In fact, you _brought_ him here with that purpose in mind.”

 

The small man’s eyes grew wide in surprise and his jaw dropped ever-so-slightly. Sherrinford smiled mirthlessly; it was obvious the Atraxi had underestimated them. ‘Juvenile’ can relate to either maturity or age but has _nothing_ to do with putting two and two together.

 

“Now, I _could_ make it provisional that you contact my country’s administration before I have any dealings with you myself. After all, I _am_ a _mere warrior_ …”

 

The small Atraxi paled and translated Sherrinford’s veiled threat to the taller Atraxi, who seemed disturbed by this turn of events and murmured amongst themselves.

 

“Can you get any of that, Myc?” Sherrinford asked, sotto voce.

 

Mycroft sneered slightly. “Yes. They were led to believe that we are unsophisticated dolts who can be led about by the nose or bullied into submission. There’s a bit of consternation among the taller Atraxi—the race worships height as an indicator of superior genetic development, so they’re the ones in charge, which plays to _our_ advantage…”

 

“The point?” Sherrinford interrupted, accompanied by a long-suffering eye-roll. Mycroft could be _so_ tedious sometimes.

 

“Ahem, yes,” Mycroft cleared his throat as he side-eyed Sherrinford in annoyance. It wasn’t the first time his older brother had pulled rank on him. “They want John Watson turned over to them without any further contact with humans. They think we will ‘pollute’ their societal purity. I’m sure this group was trained on how to maintain a social distance and deal with us as inferiors, and they will be ‘debriefed and deprogrammed’ after they return to purge any ‘human taint’.”

 

“Really,” Sherrinford muttered. “You sure of this?”

 

“I just said so, didn’t I?” Mycroft snapped back. “I’ve studied their previous visit and the notes of trained observers and xenosociologists. They want their man and they want to leave without further ado.”

 

Finally, the muttering among the tall aliens ceased and they all faced front as their Speaker stepped forward again. He composed himself before continuing. “That…will not be necessary. We are… gratified that ‘John Watson’ has found his mate and…completed bonding?” he said, half statement and half question.

 

Sherrinford and Mycroft shared a look. The hope—and fear—in that statement were palpable. Without a completed bonding, John would still be unmanageable for the Atraxi, and they would, more than likely, have to dispose of one of their most potentially successful resources. They were afraid of other races as much as they looked down on them; the presence of armed guards—all short-statured--at the periphery of the group was a testament to that.

 

The General tilted his head thoughtfully. “Actually, no. We kept them isolated from each other until your inevitable arrival.”

 

Gratsus’ face lit up. “Ah! Then we will be able to witness the process and assure its success! This is excellent news!” He turned back to the group and, in rapid patter, explained what had just been discussed. There was much head-nodding and a few smiles as he turned back…

 

“General!” came a blast from Sherrinford’s walkie-talkie.

 

Sherrinford swore and thumbed the device on. “Not now!”

 

“General, Dr. Hooper needs you, right now, at John Watson’s observation cell!”

 

His face darkening in concern, Sherrinford asked, “Why? What’s happened?”

 

“You just need to come! Hurry!”

 

The General looked at Mycroft, then the Atraxi. “Please excuse me, but there seems to be a crisis at the cell where we are holding your warrior. I must attend to it immediately!” He nodded to Mycroft as he turned to leave.

 

“Wait!” the Speaker cried out, obviously disturbed but still arrogant. “If this involves John Watson, we must know of it! We must _see_ it! We _demand_ that you take us to this ‘observation cell’ immediately!”

 

Sherrinford shrugged and said, “If that’s the way you want it, fine. Follow me, please.”

 

The General, with Mycroft and meeting party in tow, turned and walked briskly toward the medical lab that adjoined John’s cell. The Atraxi scurried to keep up. “I have to warn you all, John Watson is unpredictable. I’ve ordered my brother, Sherlock, to stay clear of him until you arrived.”

 

Shaking his head, Mycroft muttered, “I do hope our fool of a brother hasn’t let his curiosity or his love of stretching the rules get him into trouble again.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sherrinford asked, sharply.

 

“The Atraxi are here, therefore Sherlock is released from his promise to stay away from John Watson…”

 

Sherrinford paled. “ _Good God_ …!” he swore as he broke into a run. Everyone followed, a touch of panic in the air.

 

As they rounded the doorway into the observation room, Dr. Hooper was pale and hyperventilating but trying to maintain her composure. “General! Oh, thank Heavens you’re here! I tried to stop him, but, you know Sherlock…Oh, God!” She moaned as she pointed into the cell through the observation window.

 

What they saw inside was horrifying. Sherlock lay in a heap at the far end of the room, facing away from them, curled up in a fetal position. All around him there was blood; a huge pool of it had puddled around his neck and abdomen, and a length of what looked to be intestine coiled over his side and lay dripping on the floor. He was motionless.

 

“Oh, God! _Sherlock_!” Sherrinford cried out. He desperately looked around the cell as best he could from his vantage point. “Where’s John Watson? He…”

 

Suddenly a body slammed into the window, leaving bloody handprints, as John rose up from below and howled like a maniac. He beat against the pane over and over, causing the Atraxi to recoil in horror and disgust. He screamed, he threw anything that was not nailed down, and, finally crawled over to Sherlock’s still form and poked it with his finger, as if playing with it.

 

“Dr. Hooper! The Gas, quickly!” The General ordered. Dr. Hooper hit the red emergency button with her full hand and they all watched the bluish gas fill the room. John Watson barely noticed, at first, but as the gas took affect, he growled and lumbered over to the window, his face a feral mask of anger. He slammed himself against the window again before he began to wobble on his feet and his eyes started to glaze over. After one last strike with his arm against the already-blood-smeared window, he slumped to the ground and appeared to pass out.

 

Mycroft ran over to the doorway, only to be stopped by one of Sherrinford’s men. “How dare you?” he hissed. “ _That’s my brother in there_!”

 

“Our _dead_ brother,” Sherrinford corrected him, sadly. He looked back into the room at the crumpled forms on the floor. “God, Sherlock, _why_ couldn’t you have listened to reason?”

 

Dr. Hooper was weeping. Mycroft looked stunned. The Atraxi were obviously disturbed, murmuring amongst themselves. As the mist cleared from the cell, the scene inside was apocalyptic. John Watson had frothed at the mouth during his death throes and torn at his own throat, spattering even more blood around the previously grisly scene.

 

The Speaker approached, cautiously. “If he is… _incapacitated_ , we will take our man away, Warrior Leader,” he demanded, but his voice was shaky.

 

Sherrinford gave him a hard, disbelieving look. “Take him? What do you mean, take him?”

 

Gratsus replied, “We will take his body and launch it into the sun. It is obvious that the bonding was a failure. Once he recovers, he will, once again, be uncontrollable; this is the only true solution. He is Atraxi. We will take care of the matter that you have blundered.”

 

Anger was evident on the General’s face as he retorted, “Oh, don’t you worry about _that_. He won’t recover; while we were waiting for you to grace us with your presence, we created a gas that would keep him from _ever reviving again_.”

 

The Speaker was taken aback. “How? We have tried this before, without success…”

 

“Well, maybe you’re not as smart as you _think_ you are,” Sherrinford responded, with thinly-veiled contempt. “Dr. Hooper, would you please explain?”

 

Dr. Hooper dried her eyes and swallowed before speaking. “Y-yes, General. You see, I invented a gas that contained mitochondrial nanobots that, once inhaled will adhere to the cerebral cortex of laminate algae and cause a case of what we call ‘suspended anhidrotic alchemism’. In other words, the gas destroys his body from the inside out and _keeps_ destroying it, even as it heals. Eventually, if it destroys the body faster than it heals, it will consume his body _completely_. However, no one can enter that room until it’s synergetically degaussed or they may suffer a similar fate.” She turned to face the General, eyes still reddened from crying. “Sir, permission to seal off that room once both their bodies have been removed and encapsulated. We’ll eventually have to bury them deep inside a salt mine with all the other toxic waste…”

 

“Of course, of course. Do what you must,” the General said, waving her off before turning back to the speaker. “If you would like to take the body, I should warn you that, if the capsule leaks, it can infect a large area around it. People will just start…dissolving.”

 

The Speaker backed away, fear rampant on his face. “Uh, wait, allow me to discuss this with…” He turned quickly and talked so fast that Mycroft could only catch a few key words. The entire group slunk backward in unison, leaving the Speaker standing alone…

 

“The _hxplitern blagdarine_ have decided that we will allow you to dispose of the body, since you are the ones who contaminated it so badly in the first place. Without a successful bonding, he was of no use to us anymore. We shall now take our leave. You will not hear from us again, _human._ ” He stepped back to rejoin his group, which turned and walked silently, en masse, back the way they had come, spurning any escort.

 

“And a “fuck you” to you, as well,” Sherrinford muttered after they left. He nodded to one of his soldiers to close the door and expelled a sigh of relief once he was informed by walkie that the entourage had left the building.

 

“Open that fucking door,” he ordered. Mycroft indulged in a smile as he did so and leaned in.

 

“All clear, gentlemen,” he called.

 

Sherlock sat up. “Thank God. _That_ was disgusting,” he said as he removed the fake-blood-coated cow intestine that had been so artfully draped over his reclining form.

 

“But effective,” Sherrinford agreed. He clapped Molly Hooper on the back. “Well played, Dr. Hooper! A few of them looked like they were about to heave up their last meal.”

 

She blushed. “Thank you, General,” Molly giggled, girlishly. “I’m afraid I was a bit surprised when you asked me to explain it all, but I just threw in a lot of gibberish I didn’t figure they’d know.”

 

Sherrinford smiled. “Quick thinking,” he nodded.

 

Meanwhile, John Watson sprang to his feet, wiping his hands on his shirt before striding over to Sherlock and tenderly helping him to his feet. He smiled fondly up at him. _We did it._

 

Sherlock smiled back. _Yes. I just hope we fooled them enough that they’ll never figure it out_.

 

John nodded back and, going up on his toes, gave Sherlock a brief kiss. _You’re idea was brilliant! Play upon their fears and they’ll leave!_

 

Sherlock’s smile faded slightly. I _hope you’re right, John. I hope you’re right…_

 

>>>***<<<

 

Still dressed in their bloody show attire, John and Sherlock watched, arms wrapped around each other, from an observation window as the Atraxi ship rose elegantly from its resting place and soared into the sky. John let go of Sherlock only long enough to give them a parting salute involving a single finger.

 

“Learning bad habits from my brother, are you, John?” Sherrinford’s jovial voice came up from behind them and they both turned, arms still around each other’s waists.

 

“Yez,” John said with a proud smile. He hugged Sherlock closer to his side and Sherlock blushed.

 

“I _hope_ they’ll stay away,” Sherlock stated, doubt coloring his words, “I gave them the most horrific scenario I could devise for bunch of xenophobic, violence-fearing, self-important arseholes…” John gave him a little pinch and Sherlock quickly added, “present company excepted, of course, If this works, they’ll be too _afraid_ to come back. If it doesn’t…” he looked down sadly at John, who laid his head against his lover’s shoulder in support, “then we’ll have to deal with it has it comes.”

 

Sherinford agreed with a grin. “You’ve earned yourself some time off, _both_ of you. I think it’s time you get out of those bloody outfits; they’re scaring the staff.”

 

Two faces brightened at once and nodded in accord. As they walked away, Sherrinford’s smile slipped just a little bit…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
>  
> 
> Or is it?


End file.
